


Feel Again

by nanosorcerer



Series: Endgame Compliant [2]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Emotional Hurt, Endgame compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Open to Interpretation, Peter Mourning Tony, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter and Stephen are both mourning, Stephen Strange Needs a Hug, Suicidal Peter Parker, Suicidal Thoughts, angsty christmas fic, sharing their grief is their only comfort, so much fucking angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanosorcerer/pseuds/nanosorcerer
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Peter is mourning Tony. It's eight months after Tony Snapped to save the universe, and Peter finds himself knocking on the door of the Sanctum, hoping to find what he's looking for from the sorcerer who is also in mourning.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Stephen Strange, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark & Stephen Strange, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Series: Endgame Compliant [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491641
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	Feel Again

**Author's Note:**

> TW: MENTION OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS
> 
> MENTION OF MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> I realize that very few people are going to read this fic, but I hope it can give a good cry to those who need it.
> 
> This is basically the horrible parallel reality directly opposite of I Knew You For A Day.
> 
> This is something I wrote the outline for on a whim at 1 am in November sometime last year, when I was still deep in Endgame depression. I felt that the outline was too good to discard completely just because I’m in denial now. I usually steer well away from angst, but the weird, nebulous feeling brought on by grief is a thrilling challenge to write. I had to kind of detach myself from emotions a bit to be able to effectively write this, but there were definitely a couple spots where I was full on sobbing as I wrote.
> 
> Based off of Sleeping At Last - Touch (not me weaving the lyrics into the actual fic) I highly recommend listening to the song in the background as you read this fic.
> 
> Can we skip past near-death clichés  
> Where my heart restarts, as my life replays?  
> All I want is to flip a switch  
> Before something breaks that cannot be fixed
> 
> Notice how the writing style changes a bit once Peter gets close to the Sanctum, indicating that he’s in a feverish, almost hallucinogenic state, but this is also where I began the original outline before the intro. He loses all concept of time. As always, time is a theme, stars are a theme.

It was Christmas Eve.

It was Christmas Eve in the year 2023, exactly 242 days after the Battle for Earth.

Peter knew this because he looked at his calendar occasionally. Not to mark off the days, but just to know what day it was. He wasn’t sure most of the time. The only reason he knew it was Christmas Eve was that May had jogged his memory when she had been heading out of the apartment that afternoon to do some last minute Christmas shopping. She had reminded Peter that he also had errands to run, texting him a list and sending him on his way with a kiss on his forehead. Peter ducked his head so his aunt wouldn’t see the tears that had formed at the familiar gesture, too familiar but not familiar enough, lacking the rasp of stubble that Peter only felt in his dreams now. He didn’t want her to notice, didn’t want to accidentally upset her again. May had been walking on eggshells around him ever since the battle. She didn’t want him to break any further, didn’t want to be the shift in the rubble that set him off, but Peter was bomb proof at this point. He couldn’t feel anything, let alone the cold snow on his face even when May yelled after him down the street that he had forgotten a hat and scarf. 

He was numb to it all. Rain or shine, he didn’t feel a thing. It was all just some distant information on his skin, registering the presence of snowflakes hitting his already numb-to-the-cold cheeks, but it felt like it was happening to someone else. Some subconscious part of his brain associated the snow with a memory, forcing Peter to crane his neck up and take in the drear grey clouds hanging far above New York, hinting at the snowstorm that had been brewing since last night. 

Ton- _he_ used to complain about his left arm hurting whenever a storm came rolling over the city, subtle aches that came whenever the weather changed. He would always blame it on the barometric pressure, but Peter knew that wasn’t entirely true, since he’d been there at the airport fight when the car had crushed his arm even through the suit.

Sharp pain laced itself through his arm, and Peter realized with distant, morbid fascination that he’d been squeezing his own left wrist in subconscious solidarity. He stopped and held both shaking hands out to compare them, one squeezed white from his enhanced strength and the other blistering pink from the cold. He stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, watching the blood flow back into his hand, listening to his pulse turning the bone white skin into something alive again. Peter hated every beat of his own heart, wishing he could exchange the blood flowing through his own body to give life back to that grey-fleshed hand he’d clung to in the battle field, calloused and familiar, but already too cold. 

No, he’d still been wearing his armour in the battle field while leaned back against a pile of rubble, half of his face charred off and bleeding. It was only in the jet, when Rhodey had retracted his armour and they’d let Peter cling to him once more, that the teen had realized how cold and grey his hand was. Creative hands, brilliant hands that made his own armour, and Peter’s suit, and so many other things. Caring hands that tended to Peter’s cuts, and made coffee perfectly, that brushed unruly curls off Peter’s forehead to make way for a kiss, the tender kind that left a warm feeling even after his lips had pulled away. 

Peter thought of May’s forehead kiss, and how it wasn’t the same, almost crumpling to the sidewalk like a paper bag, but he forced himself to start walking again. He forced himself to walk, just like he forced himself to be alive. In the past eight months, Peter had gotten used to living in a suspended state of being just present enough to pass as alive, desperately hiding the fact that he was being eaten from the inside out by a black hole. He forced himself to eat just enough so May wouldn’t worry more than she had to, he forced himself to shower just so MJ could bear to hang out with him, he forced himself to do human things like last minute shopping and errands that his aunt asked of him, because that’s what Old Peter would have done.

Unbeknownst to everyone else, Old Peter was dead. Old Peter had died with Tony, and now New Peter was just a numb shell of his former self. Even his spidey senses were numb.

He could feel the invisibly machinery in his body chugging away as if it were separate from him, all the moving parts inside prompting him to keep living, but Peter couldn’t see the point. All those moving parts had been shutting down for quite some time now, it was only just a matter of time before they rusted out and left his insides as hollow as they felt. The hurt was overwhelming and all consuming and he couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life life this. He wanted the hurt to stop.

But Peter could keep himself alive, for a little while at least, for the sake of his family and friends. He could keep himself alive for May and Ned. He could keep himself alive for MJ, who he’d gotten closer with since they’d both been Undusted. He could even keep himself alive for Happy, who’d been checking in on Peter more often with phone calls and texts, though the former bodyguard’s presence just reminded him of Tony. 

Peter chuckled to himself at the morbid irony of it all. Mr. Stark had somehow become Tony in the last moments of his life, as if all the engineer’s insistence against unnecessary formalities had finally been drilled into the teen’s skull. Too little too late. What Peter didn’t let himself think was that he would have much rather called him ‘Dad’ than anything else.

Now, forcing thoughts of his father figure out of his head, Peter only had himself to worry about in the moment and, coupled with his dissociative tendencies, it made a bad combination for walking around New York during rush hour.

It was Christmas Eve, and it was easy to forget that he had people to stay alive for when they weren’t around. May was doing her last minute shopping, Ned was busy with family, and MJ was in bed with a cold. But Peter would do anything to distract his mind just for a little while, attempting to focus on the list May had given him, though it all seemed menial and pointless now that Tony wasn’t here to share the cranberry sauce that Peter hated, and assorted Christmas chocolates, and the Christmas crackers with the dumb little paper hats that he and Peter would wear just to make each other laugh. 

How quickly the engineer with a heart of gold had melded his way into Peter’s life.

He’d only had Christmas with Tony for the past two years, but in that short amount of time Peter had gotten used to the idea of having a father figure around again, especially during the holidays. Their first Christmas together had been a bit awkward, neither of them had quite known how to act, and gift-giving was a mix of uncertainty and guilt the teen felt that came with a store bought gift well below the billionaire’s usual pay range. Tony had surprised him, though, even though Peter already knew he wasn’t as materialistic as he came off initially. The shrewdly wrapped package he’d unceremoniously dropped onto the end of the engineer’s workbench had been handled as if it were as valuable as the thirty thousand dollar watch that Ms. Potts had given him, turned over in deft, calloused hands with the utmost care. Peter had seen that mask fall for a second, as it often did around him, the lines in Tony’s face softening as he met the teen’s eyes with a grateful grin. Peter felt like he didn’t deserve that bright, sunny smile because of a cheap Iron Man tie, but he got it regardless. That was also the first time Tony gave him a proper hug, with both arms instead of the usual sideways grip around his shoulders.

Their second Christmas together had been much different. A lot had changed in a year. Now Christmas had meant sleeping over at the Compound on Christmas Eve, staying up late with Tony and watching terrible Christmas movies while eating cookie dough that never actually became cookies. Christmas had meant Tony coming over to the apartment for dinner, reassuring May at least a dozen times that the turkey wasn’t overcooked, saying it was one of the best meals he had ever eaten, even though Peter knew that wasn’t true. But Tony had a way of telling little white lies like that just to make you feel good about yourself. 

Looking back, on all the lonely Christmases Tony must have had before, of all the times he told Peter he’d been invited to the Rhodes residence for Christmas because he’d never had this with his own family, maybe it hadn’t been a lie. Peter definitely knew it wasn't just to make him feel good when Tony teared up at the handmade scrapbook the teen gave him that year, calloused fingers once again tenderly tracing the pages filled with pictures and memories, mainly of workshop mishaps. That final Christmas together had been one of Peter’s last good memories before everything changed, only five months before the alien space ship descended into New York in a cloud of dust, and signalled the beginning of the end.

It was Christmas Eve, and Peter was lost in the numbed pain of his good memories as he went about the robotic motions of running errands. He plastered on a masquerade ball mask with dead eyes behind it when he needed to thank a cashier, his lips feeling cold and plastic whenever he forced a smile, and it felt all wrong. It was easier to zone out as he wandered around the city, feeling like a dwindling match being rattled around in an oxygen-devoid tin can when he took the bus across to Midtown Manhattan. He would have rather stayed in Queens, but there was a specific store he had scoped out which had the gift he wanted to get for May, procrastination and numbness up until this point making his stomach roil with guilt. With his luck, on Christmas Eve, they had probably sold out of the cashmere pashmina he’d been looking to get for her since 2018. 

_‘It’s taken me five years to get this gift’_ , Peter mused to himself, sleep deprived enough that this thought prompted a dry chuckle from his unused throat. The bus ride was long enough that Peter let himself drop onto a seat, the plastic somehow grounding him just a little as the repetitive rattling of the bus lulled him into a dissociative state, the constant ache in his chest made to be a little less noticeable. 

Peter had somehow fallen asleep to the tide-like clattering motion of the bus, despite the fact that he’d been unable to fall asleep in his own bed for the past several months. His sustained insomnia had only added to his zombie like state, though he wasn’t tired from school as he usually would have been. Peter had been on Christmas break for nearly a week already, but the lack of classes and homework to distract him meant that all of his thoughts had gravitated to Tony and stayed there. His thoughts were always on Tony anyway, and the fact that he wasn’t there, but school had made it just a little more bearable. 

Now Peter was left alone with his thoughts, and no one in his life could truly understand the pain he was going through, so he was left alone with his thoughts which evolved into unbearable nightmares. Nightmares of being Dusted, nightmares of Tony Snapping, nightmares that kept him up all night and didn’t allow him a single peaceful second of rest. The nightmares were horrific, to say the least. He’d woken May up with his screaming countless times, blood curdling screams that set his own hair on end, leaving him sobbing and gasping and shaking for hours in his aunt’s arms. Peter felt guilty of making May lose sleep more than anything and was terrified of what his mind kept reminding him of. So he simply just…didn’t sleep. He didn’t even try. 

It was Christmas Eve and Peter was sitting alone on the bus, forehead pressed against the cold glass as the bright, snowy, cheerful world passed by. Peter hated it.

Peter kept riding the bus even once he realized that he’d missed his stop, not sure how much time had passed as the cold of the window pane seeped into his skull. He didn’t want to go back to the new apartment bought with money from Tony’s will, the however many millions of dollars that Tony had left to him like a mocking reminder that it was all Peter had left of him. Millions of dollars left for May to get a new apartment and car, to fund Peter’s education for as many doctorates he wanted to get, to set him up for the rest of his life without worry of living paycheque to paycheque as he and May had been used to in the two years before the Snap. 

Peter didn’t want any of it. He just wanted Tony back. 

It was only once the bus made it all the way past Midtown Manhattan that Peter decided he should get off. He stumbled out into the snow, legs stiff from sitting for so long, hands tingling in the cold after the relief of muggy heat inside the bus. Peter instantly felt lost in the growing dusk, glancing up at the stars in the deep indigo that managed to peek through the smog of the city before looking down again just as quickly, hollow and alone. He needed to do something out of his regular routine before he exploded from the quiet pain of it all. Peter started walking, not even sure if he was going in the direction of the store he needed to, with no plan in mind other than the innate knowledge that he couldn’t stay there.

It was Christmas Eve, and Peter wandered the cold streets while people bustled all around him, being jostled by crowds when he wasn’t careful to stay to the side. Peter passed by countless storefronts in a numb haze, impervious to the joyful Christmas lights lining the streets, and so distant from the other people rushing around in the snow, stressed as they get last minute gifts, but happy. Happy to be alive and enjoying the holiday. Peter hated them.

Tony should be alive. Tony should be enjoying Christmas. Tony should be here, one arm wrapped around Peter’s shoulders and baring the way against groups of people hogging the sidewalk, because no one would dare push Tony Stark around. Peter almost broke down at the thought. He just wanted to feel safe again.

There were too many people. All brought back because of Tony, though he doubted that more than a few of them had even acknowledged Tony while he was alive. Peter wasn't around for the after math of the Decimation, with half the world gone but, in that moment, he imagined that it was nice. New York foot traffic was unbearable, especially right now, on Christmas Eve when people were rushing to get last minute shopping done. Peter felt trapped, choked, his senses dialled to eleven and threatening to break his sanity. 

Peter started running, dodging people in crowds, pushing through them. The cold air was sharp in his lungs and Peter took deep, gasping breaths of it, arms pumping at his sides as he full out sprinted down the street, as fast as he could go without literally running someone over. He could have swung away from the crowds much quicker, but even the thought of being in one of the suits Tony had made for him again made him sick to his stomach. The thought of slick nanotech encasing his body consumed him, red and gold, keeping him safe in space, dust, so much pain, holding on to Tony, flashes of colourful light, clinging to Tony, grey skin, glassy eyes, crying for Tony-. 

_Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony._

His shoes slapping on the pavement with every stride mocked him with the name of his dead mentor, ringing in his ears. He ran until he thought he might break, lungs being torn apart like wet paper as tears were ripped from his eyes in the cold wind. Despite his headlong rush, Peter still numbly registered people jumping out of his path at the last second.

_‘Get out of my way, I need to get out of here. I need to be with Tony.’_

That last thought jarred Peter out of his panicked sprint as he stopped dead on the edge of the sidewalk just before he’d almost run out into traffic. 

His spider senses had stopped him at the last second, even with how numb they were.

Peter accepted the loud ticking in his brain, the overbearing thought that he couldn’t ignore anymore: What if he hadn’t stopped? He let this question simmer in the forefront of his mind, letting himself be buffeted by the slight breeze created whenever a car went by, teetering on the edge of the sidewalk until he thought of May and took a step back. Peter waited for the walk signal, heart pounding in his ears, breath coming heavily in clouds of white in front of him. He let his gaze lose focus to the bright colours of snow-slicked hoods reflecting the Christmas and traffic lights, swimming in the rainbow, snow-filled kaleidoscope as he got his breath back.

He was only aware the walk signal had changed when the crowd around him began to jostle forward. He hadn’t even been aware of the crowd until they had started jostling. He decided to go with the flow and let himself be jostled, seeing no better alternative. Peter wondered why he felt so light, aware of his body for the first time in months, and realized that he must have accidentally dropped the shopping bags when he started running. Or left them on the bus? Did he ever actually have any shopping bags?

Peter stopped dead on the sidewalk again and looked around, his enhanced senses making his eyes burn against the festive lights all around, making his ears ring against the din of the crowds and traffic. He simultaneously realized that he was in Greenwich Village, that he had run here all the way from Midtown, and that he couldn’t feel his hands. Despite this knowledge, he kept walking. He couldn’t go back to the apartment bought with Tony’s death money. 

He kept walking, turning a corner and realized that the din had suddenly turned into an all-consuming calm, with only the rolling blare of traffic in the distance. There were no Christmas lights here, nothing to burn his eyes though the sidewalk now felt profoundly dark save for a few streetlights. It was peaceful, and frigidly cold, and so was he. Something tilted Peter’s head up towards the stars for a third time that day, squeezing his eyes hard against the sight of tiny, twinkling shards of broken glass in endless nothing. He let his gaze fall down and to the left, finding that he was standing in front of a building which was only five stories, but somehow felt much larger, as if it were haunted by massive and ancient presences. Peter noticed that the window on the uppermost floor was circular, and marked by an odd symbol, one that the deepest recesses of his mind told him he knew from somewhere. 

Doctor Strange.

Hazy grief immediately clogged his esophagus, thinking of the last time he’d seen the sorcerer. Eight months ago. Tony’s funeral. 

Peter was barely aware of what his body was doing anymore, and it was like someone else was climbing the snowy concrete steps and knocking on the door. Peter thought his bones might break as his knuckles rapped against the ornate wood door, his hands so icy cold that they should have shattered like icicles. 

No answer.

Peter didn’t want to knock again, he didn’t want to see Doctor Strange. He didn’t blame him for Tony’s death like a lot of people did, but something told him that the sorcerer had had a part to play in it all, something to do with fourteen million realities and this being the winning one. It didn’t feel like they had won. 

He knocked again. Still no answer. 

Peter knew that he should just go home, back to the apartment bought with Tony’s death money, but the thought of sitting in his room, alone with his grief, was unbearable. So he knocked on the door, harder this time.

No answer. 

Peter felt like he could have frozen to the spot standing there and waiting for an eternity, his feet glued to the pavement like a half dead statue. Snow was falling on his shoulders and in his hair, completing his own mental imagine of his static, sentry-like vigil, immobile and with no purpose other than to stay rooted to the spot, connected to one of the many places tainted by thoughts of Tony’s death. Peter managed to override his own natural impulse to stand there in the cold until he didn’t have to feel anymore, consciously able to feel parts of his body shutting down as his spider DNA refused to allow him to thermoregulate in extreme temperatures.

He turned stiffly, reluctantly, and hobbled down the enormous cement steps, realizing that his converse were drenched from walking through the snow and had frozen stiff as he had stood there. Peter sucked in a deep breath of icy air that hurt his lungs, starting to walk back the way he had come when he heard the door creak open behind him, accompanied by a voice like a rusty cello that came from within. 

“Peter?”

Peter turned to face opal eyes that looked glassy in the glow from the streetlight, peering out at him from the darkness of the Sanctum, like some blind ghoul with a hollowed out face and too prominent cheekbones. Peter blinked, realizing it was a slight play of the light as he recognized the sorcerer, though he couldn’t hear his heartbeat or sense his presence like he did with most people. It felt more like talking to some eldritch entity than a human, though Peter figured he didn’t look very alive himself. 

“You live here.” His tone was accusatory and the sorcerer blinked in understandable bewilderment.

“Yes.”

Old Peter would have apologized, for not greeting the sorcerer properly after not seeing each other for so long, for being so blunt, for knocking on the Sanctum door even though he didn’t know what he was here for. But Old Peter was dead. 

“I don’t know why I’m here.” His honestly doesn’t seem to shock the sorcerer this time. 

“I’m…not busy…at the moment”, Strange said slowly, as if he were weighing his words carefully as he said them. He spoke haltingly, like an ancient tree that had forgotten it had the ability to do so, like he was out of practice. “Maybe I can…offer some assistance. Come in, if you want.”

Peter didn’t particularly _want_ to do anything. He didn’t really want to do anything ever again, but accepting the sorcerer’s offer seemed slightly less horribly unbearable than standing on the cold sidewalk, and it seemed much less horribly unbearable than going back to the apartment bought with Tony’s death money. 

Peter had never been in the Sanctum Sanctorum, but it was exactly what he expected. Huge and ancient-looking. Dark and dusty. There were magical-looking artifacts strewn about the front foyer which felt as quiet and still as a funeral home, but what threw Peter off the most was seeing Doctor Strange in normal clothes. His sleep-deprived brain couldn’t help but focus on the dark green cable knit sweater and the worn jeans with all sorts of chemical stains and burns on their front. Peter wasn’t even concerned that this was what his grief-addled mind was fixating on, but he reasoned that the sorcerer’s current attire was a strong contrast to the robes and cloak Peter had gotten used to in the day they had known each other. Without all those protective layers and guarded lines, Strange just seemed too soft, too vulnerable, and too thin under the sweater that looked at least two sizes too big for him

_‘Too broken’_ , Peter thought distantly, noticing the haunted look lingering behind the sorcerer’s eyes. Strange was looking at him like he was thinking the same thing about Peter’s civilian apparel, clearly too unaccustomed to common human decency to avoid staring, like he was wondering why the teen wasn't in a red and blue metal suit, why he didn’t have blood and terror on his face, why he was made of flesh instead of dust.

Old Peter would have apologized for his dishevelled state, for the puddles he was creating on the ancient floor as his shoes melted and snow dripped off his coat. Old Peter was dead. This Peter just stared back at opal eyes that looked more dead than alive. 

After what seemed like several long moments of consideration, Strange walked away without so much as a beckoning hand to follow after him, but it was in that moment that Peter noticed the sorcerer was in socked feet, colorful, knitted wool things that looked like they were from Tibet, probably handmade. With this observation, Peter toed off his frozen converse so he was left in his soaked cotton socks, slopping across the stone floor as he trailed the sorcerer to an area to the right of the main staircase. Peter dropped his coat somewhere along the way, discarding it on the railing of the staircase without even realizing it. He was still freezing, cold enough that he wasn’t even shivering anymore, but coherent enough to realize that his drenched coat wasn’t going to keep him warm. 

He followed Strange to what appeared to be a reading nook, with couches and chairs and books and a fireplace and comfortable clutter all around. There was a myriad of lamps scattered throughout the entire foyer and in the reading nook especially, on desks and tables and beside chairs, along with sconces on the walls, but very few of them were actually turned out, leaving the room feeling dingy but with a low, warm glow where there was light. The foyer itself was grand but somehow homey feeling at the same time, everything with a worn feeling that suited the sorcerer well somehow as he moved about the place, fiddling with something out of sight at one of the side tables. The air was practically humming with magical energy, a sage and stardust feeling that had been hard to place at first, but trailed Strange around most strongly.

Peter had never felt so out of place.

He was too numb to actually be uncomfortable, but also far too aware of what he was doing with his hands now that he was able to feel them again. Despite this, it was the first time he didn’t feel like screaming and tearing his hair out in weeks, he didn’t feel like his ribs were cracking from the black hole in his chest, so he just…stood and watched the sorcerer robotically hovering by the little side table which Peter soon realized was a weird-looking little cooktop, complete with an ancient black teapot that was now steaming. 

The reading nook smelled like incense (more pungent than the kind May liked to use around the apartment), and so did the man who was watching him now, grey eyes shadowed, and scruffier than he used to be. All of Strange’s clean, smooth edges had been roughened, chipped away by…grief? Peter wasn’t sure, but the past eight months had clearly taken a toll on them both. 

Peter felt hollow, all regard for politeness completely drained out of him as he simply stared back at Strange.

He felt safe to be rude with this man. With everyone else, he had to keep himself in check, pretend that he was still Old Peter. But he felt like he didn’t have to worry about fake smiles and polite niceties with Strange. They hadn’t seen each other in eight months, but they had yet to ask how the other was as they probably knew how the other was, and there was something comforting in the complete disregard for human customs. They hadn’t seen each other since Tony’s funeral, but words hadn’t been needed then either because there was nothing to say. Still, the sorcerer’s presence didn’t feel unfamiliar and just seeing him, his presence alone reminded Peter of one of the last times he had seen Tony before the gut-wrenching horror that came with the Battle for Earth.

“Would you like some tea?”

Peter had never liked tea. Coffee only. Coffee had fuelled him away from a sleep-deprived coma for the past few weeks. Tony loved coffee.

“Yeah, okay.”

Peter didn’t remember sitting, but he noticed absently that he was now seated in an old, embroidery-cushioned chair with ornately carved wooden arms. They were something to hold on to, with grooves to run his fingers through and it was the closest he’d felt to grounded in months. Peter realized that Strange had asked him a question while he’d been rubbing his fingers in the grooves of the chair, looking up at the sorcerer blankly.

“What?”

“I asked if you have plans for Christmas”, Strange reiterated as casually as possible, sitting in his own chair as if he were afraid it might break, but Peter could tell that the question felt wrong to both of them. Talking felt wrong.

“Why?”, he asked bluntly, and Old Peter gaped at him in horror. Strange raised an eyebrow while staring blankly into the middle distance, as if considering this question for himself.

“It seemed like the…polite thing to ask. Considering the date.” Strange’s voice was brittle, like dry moth wings, not the smooth, deep rumble it once was. 

_What day was it? Right. Christmas Eve._ It felt odd for Strange to ask him about plans for Christmas. It was all a weak attempt at pleasantries, and Peter could tell that his heart wasn't really into it. Not the small talk, anyway, because the look in the sorcerer’s eyes gave him away. Beneath his cold facade, Strange was concerned about him. Peter hated that. He was utterly exhausted of people being concerned about him, especially May, because that always just buried him deeper beneath his own guilt. He didn’t want people to feel bad for him, he wanted Tony back. Peter had thought he would be safe from Strange’s concern since he and the sorcerer barely knew one another, but apparently Strange couldn’t bear to stomach his own guilt without pushing it onto the teen, and Peter’s chest simmered with resentment. 

“Are you alone for Christmas?”, Peter asked coldly without answering the initial question, meeting the sorcerer’s dull gaze, wanting him to hurt and be as uncomfortable as Peter was. He hadn’t failed to notice the complete lack of Christmas decorations in the Sanctum, at least in the parts he’d seen. 

“Wong has family he’s visiting. Someone needs to keep an eye on the Sanctum”, Strange responded easily, robotically, and clearly expecting Peter to be smart enough to remember that Wong had fought with them in the New York battle. Peter was.

“Don’t you have family?” Old Peter would have been too polite to ask this question. He would have steered away from the hurt look in the sorcerer’s eyes, or gone about it a little more subtly. This Peter didn’t have the energy to give it much thought, but he wished he still cared, he wished he could still care enough to worry about being polite.

“No.” Strange’s answer was to the point. Regretful. That was the only emotion that slipped through his brittle stone mask.

“All of my family’s busy tonight”, Peter informed him like a musing drunk, his head feeling swimmy as the crackling fireplace de-thawed him. He didn’t feel in his body. A flicker of warmth skipped over the barren nothingness of Peter’s chest as he realized that he thought of MJ as his family. Ned was his family. Yes, Happy too. “We’re gonna be together tomorrow though.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter wondered if it would make much of a difference if he was there or not. He didn’t want to bring them all down, to ruin the mood like he kept doing, his grief hanging over him like a raincloud. Maybe he should have just run out into the traffic after all. 

“I’m sure they’ll be glad to spend time with you”, Strange said as genuinely as he could manage, seeming to catch on to his train of thought, and Peter wondered with a jolt of fear whether the sorcerer could read minds. “You’re done school for the year?”

“Yeah. Christmas break started a week ago.” Peter found that he didn’t mind answering this question quite so much, even though his voice croaked. **_Don’t you dare fucking cry._** It felt weird to tell his regular goings-on to a second party, someone other than May. It felt like the ghost of a memory, something that used to be familiar, but now there was just a whisper. Whispers which told Peter that he used to share things like this with a father figure. He hadn’t had that in so long.

“You seem to have adjusted going back to school alright”, Strange said nonchalantly, almost like he cared. Peter could feel him warming up to asking The Question. The Question could go fuck itself.

_‘How are you doing, Peter?’_ That’s what Peter expected Strange to ask. Everyone asked that even when, especially when, they didn’t really want to know the answer.

Because the answer was that he'd wondered five times in the past week alone how long it would hurt for if he stepped in front of a bus. Just…leaned out into the street when the driver didn’t have a chance to swerve or stop. His advanced healing would probably ruin that plan, but he couldn’t help but wonder how far he could go before his healing didn’t heal anymore. The scientist in him wanted to experiment, to push it it until it broke. He’d contemplated getting drunk for the first time in his life, then remembered he couldn’t buy any real booze at the age of seventeen, and the single bottle of red wine May kept in the apartment wouldn’t do much. Peter had passed druggies huddled in the street and wondered what it would feel like to forget everything, though he doubted that he would actually be able to forget. His goddamned sped up metabolism would probably get in the way anyway. Those were the tame ideas he’d had in the past eight months, some of the more extreme thoughts dancing along the lines of whether a tumble off a high-rise would leave him dead or just paralyzed. 

Those ideas were everything shoved under his breastbone in an ugly, putrid mess, waiting to pour out through the seems of his human suit whenever people asked The Question. Old Peter, the good, polite Peter, was supposed to say, ‘I’m doing okay. Getting through it, you know’. So that’s what New Peter, sick, ripped apart Peter, forced himself to still say now. For their sake. For May’s sake. For Ned’s sake. Anything else would be too much for them to handle. He was too broken and rotting for them to touch and have any hope of fixing, because they’d be fixing him for themselves.

But The Question didn’t come.

Strange didn’t ask it.

Instead, he sat in his chair, looking unbearably small without the cloak, so much so that Peter wanted to yell at him, to ask him where it was, why he wasn’t wearing it. Peter liked the cloak, even if it had been an asshole to him at first. Luckily for him, New Peter didn’t have much of a filter.

“Where’s the cloak?”

“Watching over my body.”

“Are you a ghost?” Old Peter wouldn’t have asked that question, just in case it was true.

“No”, Strange said, even though he sounded and looked like one. “I’m just in my astral form.” Without any further explanation, or even excusing himself, Strange disappeared in a crackling of dimensional barriers, falling through what looked like a hole in a jagged, broken mirror. Peter was too numb to do anything but stare in detached horror at the spot where Strange had vanished. The sorcerer, his real self, came shuffling down the main staircase a few moments later, and his actual body looked so much worse in person. Peter could see why he had been in his astral form. 

Strange looked tired down to his bones, his entire frame weary with the mere effort of existence while his dead, grey eyes met Peter’s, like two shards of titanium that lacked their metallic lustre. The only thing that made him look remotely alive was the blood red cloth cascading down from his shoulders, which made him look slightly more like himself, the cloak clearly assisting him in walking down the stairs. Peter felt like he was looking at a ghost, even more so than when the sorcerer had been in his astral form. He watched the ghost once again sit in the chair opposite him, the cloak shifting around Strange in folds of crimson protectiveness, not paying attention to Peter as they fussed over the sorcerer in a constant state of agitated worry. Peter wondered if Strange would reacquire decent human etiquette and start railing him with questions now that he’d decided to inhabit his own body again. 

No. He just sat and studied Peter in a way that should have been irritating, and Peter imagined himself getting angry and flipping his shit on this arrogant wizard who said he would have traded his and Tony’s lives for a fancy rock. He hadn’t, but that was besides the point.

But now it was just the two of them in this small, dusty corner of the Sanctum, silence eating away at the edges of the dark foyer as their eyes met in another dissociative, bluntly rude staring competition, but Peter wasn’t seeing Strange as he was now. He was seeing the proud, vibrant, cutting man he’d met on a fucking alien spaceship of all places, comparing him to the man sitting in front of him with something akin to disappointment, and they weren’t the same person at all.

And this cut at Peter. It stabbed at his chest like a repeated insult, a knife of torment, because what right did this man have to grieve Tony Stark? What right did he have to look like he’d been broken a thousand times over, like his eyes had seen enough to last a million life times, dead but still showing far too much, like he’d cried tears that weren’t his to cry. 

Strange hadn’t known Tony before the alien ship, Peter knew that much. Strange shouldn’t be grieving, it didn’t make sense. So why was Peter sitting here, with the imposter who had traded Tony for everything? There were people who blamed Strange. Rhodey did. They blamed him for Tony’s death, said he had handed him over, only keeping him alive until the right moment. Had pulled a right old Dumbledore on him. Peter hated that reference. Since he was little, he had always wanted to believe that Dumbledore really cared about Harry the same way his childish naivety wanted him to believe that Strange wouldn’t have handed over Tony’s life like that, in a predetermined exchange for the universe. Not Tony.

Peter wanted to blame him, he really did. More than anything he wanted to place the blame somewhere, to direct it at one entity of existence because cursing out the entire universe everyday was so fucking exhausting. But he hadn’t been able to do it in the past eight months and it wasn’t made any easier by having the man sitting right in front of him, skewed in his ancient chair by his own brokenness.

The kettle whistled suddenly and it was the realest thing Peter had experienced in months. No. Stop. He hated that, he just wanted to be numb. People kept expecting him to feel things again, but he didn’t want to feel anything again, he couldn’t bear to feel anything. Now an ancient kettle of all things was trying to entice him back to the land of the living, and it pissed him off, but the lull of a warm cup in Peter’s hands was shock enough to pull him out of the delirious inner rage channeling him into fits of violence against inanimate objects.

“I can’t offer you anything.” Strange said this as he sat back down in his chair with his own cup of tea levitating beside him, using the arm of the chair to steady himself as he lowered down in to it, as if he were very old. How old was he? Peter had always been terrible at guessing age.

“What?” Old Peter never would have said that. Old Peter was polite and said, ‘Pardon?’ Old Peter was dead.

“I can’t…offer you any comfort…or whatever else you might be looking for.” Strange met his eyes guiltily, because they both knew what Peter was looking for, what his soul had been wandering around New York in subconscious search of. “I know there’s no point…in asking how you’ve been doing, so I’ll spare you…of any further small talk.’

Peter blinked stupidly, his hands tingling against the heat of his tea cup.

“If you want to talk, we can talk…about real things. About…what ever you want. Or we…don’t have to talk at all.”

“I don’t want comfort from you.” Peter’s brain had taken a while to catch up, but he spat vehemence once it had.

“Good. I just said that…I can’t offer it”, Strange said calmly, and this pissed Peter off even more.

“How could you?”, he challenged.

“I can’t.”

“Because?” Something was prompting Peter to ask questions that he didn’t understand. Strange almost looked offended before he broke down, tears making quiet rivers down his face, though he nudged the cloak away when it started stroking his cheek. 

“Ever since…I’ve been trying to find a way…to bring him back”, Strange whispered, like an admission to a crime. Or love. 

At the sorcerer’s words, the tea in Peter’s hands went cold and his throat fell into his stomach and he almost threw up on the Persian rug under his feet. He couldn’t talk. He didn’t trust himself to look at Strange, training his gaze on his own bare feet even though he couldn’t remember taking his socks off.

“I haven’t found…anything. No way to bring him back safely without…undoing everything his Snap did. I’m beginning to think…I won’t ever find a way.” Strange’s voice was hollow, dead, but the profound agony in his eyes let Peter know that this was the biggest regret of his life. There was suddenly a clock on the wall that was very loud and Peter wondered how long it had been there. 

“Beginning”, Peter said. It wasn't a question. Strange’s face was stoic - was it ever not stoic? - but his voice quavered in a wet way that almost made Peter vomit.

“I know I'm a fool to try…Wong has told me as such many, many times. But I thought…if there was a chance…” Breaking completely with a sudden, choked, animalistic noise, Strange’s shaking hands were rendered useless, like two long-fingered moths caught in a strong gust of wind and his tea fell to the floor. The cup didn’t break, the tea just soaked into the rug and barely left a dark spot on the red and brownish wool. One of the sorcerer’s useless, scarred hands grabbed the arm of the chair until Peter thought a vein might burst, the other clasped around the sorcerer’s gaping mouth as he contained an ugly sob. 

Peter just watched with morbid curiosity. It was like watching a play, a play that someone had stolen from him. Like the writer had been watching him in his room everyday for the past eight months, and then changed it up a bit for copyright purposes, so he was actually a sorcerer with ugly scars, wheezing for breath in a building that smelt like old leaves instead of mould like you would expect.

“Did you know him?”, Peter asked suddenly in a strained voice, betraying a question trapped under his tongue for the past eight months. Strange gave him a funny look, eyes pink and confused, and Peter hated having to talk more “Before the space ship?”, he clarified. Peter knew the answer, but he had to hear it for himself.

“No”, Strange admitted, but he wished he had, that much was clear on the sorcerer’s tear-blotched face. No. He was just a man. A man who was grieving, and Peter supposed he was allowed to. If only…

“What did you actually see? Before this one? This future?” Peter rolled his eyes at himself. “Present.” Strange blinked at him with surprise. Peter hated when people were surprised at how smart he was. He wished he wasn't smart a lot, since he figured that being dumb might be easier. He might be able to bear living in his own head. He wanted to get out. So he left and focused on the man in front of him.

“Were you friends? In the futures?”, he pressed, fidgeting with the tea cup in his hands, certainly with no intent to drink the lukewarm leaf water. Strange gaped a little before shutting his mouth and nodding. Peter hated liars too.

“Is that the whole truth?” Peter’s head was screaming. Why did Strange care so much about Tony? Why did he care? Why did he care? Why did he care? Why di-?

“In many futures…yes, we were friends. In others, we were…” 

Peter suddenly didn’t want to hear it. He regretted asking.

“We were together…married.” Strange choked on the word like he was swallowing gravel, eyes suddenly opal again as he leaned forward into the firelight, eyes brimming with tears and all the raw, ragged pain within them. 

No. He was still talking.

“You were still like a son to him.” Tears were flowing freely down the sorcerers face now, and Old Peter would have felt guilty. New Peter made a silent bet that he’d cried more. “And to me”, Strange rasped out, meeting the teen’s eyes for a split second of vulnerability before the sorcerer crumpled in on himself with a wet sob. Peter turned his words over in his mind, but felt nothing. Maybe he would have wanted that, in another future, to be loved by the bravest man and the most cowardly man (at least in Peter’s eyes) in the universe, to be considered their son. 

But they were in this future, and Peter had only seen this man three times before in his life. The three worst days of his life. He died. Then Tony died. Then tradition and fucking human customs rubbed his face in the fact that Tony had died. He had worn a suit to be mocked. Despite this, he was momentarily drawn out of his spite by the look in Strange’s eyes. Not pity, thank goodness. It was love. Regret. Wishing for something that would never be, but oh _god_ , it should have been. Peter couldn’t even let himself yearn for that, he’d already been hurt too much.

“Stop. It wasn’t real.” Old Peter would never say this. “You didn’t know him.”

“I know”, Strange whimpered brokenly, looking small even with the cloak around his shoulders. The sorcerer took a few shuddering, raspy breaths, sniffing back tears before his resolve was back just as quickly as it had left. He wiped his cheeks and sat up a little straighter, an attempt to salvage what little pride he had left. Eyes red. Still broken. Peter wondered if he’d ever not be broken again. He already knew the answer to that question about himself.

This thought crumbled something away in him. If they were going to be broken, no fixing it, maybe there was something morbidly comforting knowing that Tony had wrecked someone else’s life so thoroughly, even though they had never really known him. That suddenly made it okay for Strange to grieve him, to pretend that he could even come close to feeling as dead as Peter already did. 

He’d been dead before, they both had. This was so much worse.

“Did you love him?” Peter suddenly had to know, even if he sounded detached and cold.

“More than anything.” No hesitation.

“Good. He deserved that.” Peter hated the sound of his voice breaking, the wetness so familiar it was almost dry. Tears came and they felt familiar on his face. Good. He felt even more empty without the salty tracks of warmth reminding him that he was solid, even though being ash on the wind felt so much freer. 

“He loved you. He loved you more than life itself”, Strange rasped suddenly, as if Peter didn’t already know that. “He created time travel just to bring you back.” Peter hadn’t known that. 

“Don’t tell me that”, Peter wheezed, molten hate flaring in his chest suddenly. He didn’t need a man he didn’t even know to tell him that Tony had loved him. He didn’t need the weighted guilt of knowing that Tony was dead because of him. 

“Fine, I won’t tell you. Can I show you?’ Damn his curiosity. Peter asked _‘_ What?’ _,_ again like some moron. Strange’s hands were shaking again, so badly that Peter imagined he could hear the pins rattling against his bones when the sorcerer held them up to him. Pleading. 

“Please, let me-.” Strange nearly begged and then stopped himself. “I can show you…if you want.”

“I don’t-…”, Peter started, but then leaned forward in his musty, velvet chair and something in his face must have signalled an okay to the sorcerer who contorted his fingers in a way that looked painful. Strange barely held the position through his shaking, pain showing through in his eyes as he made an elaborate motion before drawing his hands out from his chest, and threw them wide. 

Peter was shaking, sweating, about to vomit as a projected image hung in the air, glowing and overtaking the space between them in the reading nook. He couldn’t tell what colour the images were or what they were made of or how it was even possible, because Tony was there. 

“Dad”, Peter warbled out weakly, sounding like water was filling his mouth as he drowned in his own tears. 

Tony was there, so close that Peter could have touched him, and the teen grasped at the magically projected image in front of him even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to feel the fabric of an expensive suit, or smell the woody spice of a nearly as expensive cologne, or the gentle brush of a calloused thumb against his cheek. Peter immediately broke with a guttural sob, tea cup tumbling off his lap as he fell to his knees on the carpet. The cup missed the carpet this time, however, and immediately shattered along with Peter’s heart on the ancient stone floor. Peter clutched at his own chest with one hand, trying to repair the rent apart feeling with his grasp alone, trying to pull his split ribcage back together and drag his innards back into their rightful cavity. Instead, everything in his body was laid out on the carpet in front of him in a bloody mess, leaving him hollow as he was swallowed by the soul-splitting emptiness inside. 

There he was, as large as life as he was scolding Peter after the ferry incident, an interaction Peter had ran through his head a thousand times after the fact, wondering how he had managed to piss Tony Stark off enough for him to take his suit. Now he’d give that suit back to Tony a million times if it meant-

The image flickered out and Peter nearly yelped in anguish as it disappeared. His heart started beating again when another image flickered into existence to take its place. It wasn’t Tony this time, but Ms. Potts. She was smiling a patient smile as a familiar voice came from ‘off-screen’. _Oh god._ These were Tony’s memories.

“C’mon, Pep. I know I’ve always been a mess, but I could pull myself together.” Tony’s easy, warm voice came from somewhere ‘off-screen’ and Peter had to blink rapidly and swipe at his eyes just so he could still see the projected image. “I mean, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of pulling myself together so far. I could be dad material, right? I could handle a kid, or another kid, I mean. Two kids, right?”

Peter choked. His chest was being crushed at the thought of all the lost time, all the memories they’d missed out on. Five years. There was a building on top of his lungs and no matter how hard he fought for breath, his lungs wouldn’t expand.

_‘Yes. I want to be your kid. Please let me still be your kid.’_

“You know Peter’s not your kid, right?”, Ms. Potts asked, and it was like a knife to the gut, but something about his own reaction made Peter glance over at the sorcerer. Strange was watching the scene with longing, heartbroken bitterness. Jealousy, even, as he glared at the blonde woman through his pained haze, but left the image up for Peter’s sake when the familiar voice spoke again. 

“Yeah, he is”, Tony corrected easily, and his sudden appearance ‘on-screen’ showed that he was working on updating Peter’s Iron Spider suit, love shining through in his eyes as he tinkered. “That kid’s gotta be my flesh and blood, there’s no way he got that stubbornness from his au-.”

The image flickered again, messily and in a myriad of swirling reds and blues, and then Peter was looking at his own face, smushed with sleep as he laid passed out on the workbench in Tony’s lab. Tony came in with a blanket, carefully pulling an empty Burger King bag out from under Peter’s elbow and prying the screwdriver out of his sleep-limp fingers. Tony regarded his sleeping form with a soft smile gracing his features, all the fatherly love in the world showing in his kind hazel eyes as he brushed the teen’s curls back, dropping a kiss on his forehead after a moment of consideration. 

Peter suddenly felt the sorcerer’s eyes on him and tore his own eyes from the projection to see Strange watching him with an almost tender expression, making Peter realize that there was a smile plastered across his own face. Weak and stiff and lopsided since he was so out of practice, but a smile nonetheless. It felt wrong to smile when Tony was still dead, so Peter’s face quickly resumed its neutral position that it had kept up for the past eight months solid. Strange sighed softly, arms shaking with the effort his weakened body was going through to maintain the spell that was producing the projected images.

Suddenly Tony was in front of him again, looking a few years older than the last memory, five years to be exact. Peter remembered seeing him like this when they had hugged on the battlefield sometime during the Battle for Earth, except now he looked so much more peaceful, sans the blood and grime on his face which had only deepened his stress lines. Maybe peaceful was the wrong word, because Tony’s eyes were heavy with grief in this projection, so different from the loving warmth Peter was used to seeing directed at him, even amongst the din of a potentially universe-ending battle. 

Tony was washing dishes while wearing a worn sweatshirt, his hair and goatee untouched by dye, and it was all so domestic and everything that he had ever wanted that Peter choked on another sob. Tony looked soft, and grey, like he’d let all of his hard lines be eased by time and grief. He looked like a dad, and Peter wanted him back. Projection Tony lost control of the faucet head he was holding, spraying water all over the place, and Peter almost smiled again. His near-smile fell, though, when he saw what the water had sprayed: The picture they had taken when Peter had completed his internship at Stark Industries, the one where they held the certificate upside down and Tony had tried to hold back a smirk as they made bunny ears behind each other’s heads. Peter let out a desperate, hiccupy noise at the memory, that could have passed as a laugh if it wasn’t so heartbroken.

Peter watched as Tony wiped the photo and picture frame dry, resolve filtering through the grief in the engineer’s eyes as he paused, weighted by the past five years that he’d spent without his boy. He had the chance to get Peter back, and he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t take that chance. He’d give up the world for Peter. 

Peter was prepared when the image flickered out this time, though it was no less painful, staring blankly at the spot where Tony had been until he couldn’t see through his tears again. Every cell in his body was screaming to be held by his dad, asking the universe if he could just have his dad back. He’d never ask for anything ever again if he could just have Tony back.

The universe wasn’t listening. 

His hands itching from grasping at nothing, Peter tried to rub the numbness away on the legs of his jeans, surprised that he had even registered the feeling. His brain still slowed by grief, it took another minute or so before he noticed the sorcerer wheezing on the floor in a pile of tremors, the cloak holding him up to reduce the strain on his airways, though it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Strange was dangerously pale, his feet scrabbling against the stone floor as he groaned with pain. Peter’s brow furrowed with concern, distantly realizing that it was the first time he’d felt empathy in eight months.

“A-are you okay?” Peter’s voice was raw from sobbing, sounding like he’d been swallowing nails and smoking everyday of his life.

“It’s fine, I’m fine”, Strange grunted as he did his best to remain upright, clearly not fine, but also not willing to admit otherwise. “Levi, help me up.” The cloak wasted no time in helping their master to his feet, though they practically had the Sorcerer Supreme swaddled like a baby as they lifted him up and brought him to a more comfortable armchair closer to the fireplace. Strange seemed to disregard his pride for a second, until Peter realized he was only concentrating so he could shift into his astral form. The sorcerer’s body suddenly went limp, and Peter felt profoundly alone for a few moments before Strange’s ghostly form reappeared through a break between dimensional planes, looking none the worse for wear despite his previous state.

“What happened?”, Peter asked as his brow furrowed again, noting how the cloak stayed wrapped protectively around the sorcerer’s still body.

“My body…couldn’t handle…the energy of the spell”, Strange replied levelly, still speaking in that broken, halting way he had now. Peter thought maybe he hadn’t anyone to talk to lately, or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to talk. Peter could understand that. “I haven’t used magic…in my physical body in…quite awhile.”

“Then why’d you do it?”, Peter asked, resisting the urge to add, _‘That was stupid.’_

“Because I…wanted to show you”, Strange said quietly, voice breaking a little as his opal eyes softened, his nearly translucent form shimmering in the orange firelight. “I wanted to…help remind you…how good it was.” Peter felt profoundly guilty for a moment upon realizing that the sorcerer had hurt himself for his sake. “That you were…lucky to actually have time with him.” 

Peter wanted to get mad at the sorcerer, but he didn’t have the energy anymore. He wanted to get mad, but was different, because Strange wasn’t actually berating him or telling him to be grateful for the time he did have with Tony, as other people had. He wasn’t insinuating that Peter had taken his time with Tony for granted. He was admitting that it hurt that all they had left of Tony was memories, and the extra moment of reflection let Peter realize that Strange was envious, but was doing his best to hide it. 

“I know”, Peter said, hating the way his voice croaked and wavered with the dry feeling of tears in the back of his throat. “I know I was lucky. I just miss him. I m-miss him s-so much”, he forced out brokenly, but no tears came, just the empty, hiccupy sobs that hurt his chest. Strange looked at him with pity, like he would have hugged him if he was in his physical form, but the intuitive cloak decided to take the initiative that the aloof sorcerer never would have. Peter felt his pain immediately lessen as thick, soft fabric wrapped around him and held him tightly, squeezing him so that his gasping breaths couldn’t turn into a panic attack. He was grounded by the feeling, and by the warmth of the fireplace as the cloak dragged him to sit back down in the chair that was probably as old as the cloak itself.

“Their name is Levi”, Strange said simply, watching the pair with a thoughtful expression that hid a million complex intuitions, before grabbing a book and taking up his former seat. He was still in his astral form while his body remained slumped in the chair by the fireplace, like a ghost watching over their former vessel. 

“Thank you”, Peter whispered, too quiet for Strange to hear, but he convinced himself that it wasn’t for the sorcerer’s ears anyway. He was just thanking the cloak. Levi continued to cocoon the teen tightly, ruffling his curls in way of accepting the portion of thanks they were due, though the ancient entity seemed to understand that Peter was now somehow indebted to their master.

Ignoring the sour feeling in his chest, Peter was content to cry into the blood red fabric, red like Tony’s armour, as salty tracks formed silently on his face and he pulled his feet up so he was wedged into the old chair in a way that was somehow comfortable. He was grateful that Strange just let him cry, because he needed to. Strange didn’t try to tell him it was alright, because it wasn’t. Everyone had been trying for the past eight months to ‘fix’ Peter, even though there was no fixing him, but the sorcerer had gotten closer than anyone, maybe for the simple fact that he hadn’t even been trying.

The sorcerer’s silent, steady company was welcome, as if being ignored instead of fussed over was exactly what Peter needed, still reliving the tiny details of each moment Strange had shown him and grateful for every second, almost comforted by being able to simply let the tears pour openly down his cheeks, face flushed from the close proximity of the fireplace. He was curled up in a position that wouldn’t be comfortable for long but, in the moment, it was pure bliss, reminding him of the times Tony had held him on his lap like a baby when he cried. 

It had only happened twice: Once when Peter had broken his leg on patrol, and the second time was the worst panic attack of his life, a nightmare of being crushed and buried alive in rubble that left May feeling helpless in her ability to soothe her boy’s anguish. That second time had been a late night, guilty phone call, but Tony assured them that he had been up anyway, walking into Peter’s room as if he had done so a million times and scooping his boy up in his arms. Peter had clung to him as close as he physically could, his face pressed against Tony’s chest as he listened to the steady beating of his heart, his big heart, his heart of gold, his heart that Peter had had to listen to as it stopped. Shoving out reality, Peter made himself focus on the memory of being held in strong arms, prickly kisses being pressed against his forehead as Tony muttered soothing nonsense, telling him that he loved him and everything was going to be okay. 

And curled up in the wood and velvet chair, swaddled tight by the cloak, Peter could almost imagine that he was in Tony’s arms again. 

Silence filled the Sanctum save for the ticking of the clock on the wall, setting a rhythm for the heart Peter was imagining beating beside his ear while he muffled out reality with his face shoved into the ancient, embroidered fabric of the cloak, probably crying and snotting all over them. Levi didn’t seem to mind much. The crinkling sound of ancient pages being gently thumbed by ghostly fingers was repetitive, and didn’t annoy Peter like most sounds had been lately. It also assured him that Strange was still there, that he hadn’t left, and that Peter was safe to fall asleep. 

He woke up again too soon. The sleeping didn’t understand time. Neither did the dead.

There was that golden moment right when Peter first woke up, those few seconds of peace where he forgot reality before its weight settled back into his chest. His dreams had only been dreams. 

Tony was still gone.

His face stiff with dry tears, Peter realized that he’d been woken by the ringing of his own cellphone, still in the pocket of his drenched coat slung over the main banister. A glance at the clock told him that he’d been asleep for over three hours…maybe. How long had he been here? What time had he left the apartment? Everything was a blur, time wasn’t real. Peter’s eyes felt hot and hazy, still tangled up in the cloak, and he couldn’t imagine getting up from the chair in time before the call rang out.

Luckily for Peter, a ghost was answering the phone.

“Hello. Ms. Parker? This is…Stephen. Doctor Strange. We met at the fu-… Yes. He’s here…at the Sanctum. He’s completely fine just…asleep right now. Yes. We had a…talk. I think that’s what he needed. He’s welcome to stay the night and…wait out the storm. I can bring him by…in the morning. Yes, I’m sure. Alright. Merry Christmas…to you as well. Goodbye.”

After returning the cellphone back to the teen’s coat pocket, Stephen noticed Peter watching him and smiled a weak, empty smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and Peter guessed that would be the only kind of smile he would ever wear for the rest of his life. Peter couldn’t make himself return the smile, but he gave the sorcerer a half nod, a silent thank you. He thanked him for the relief of being able to see his dad again, something to replace the agonized screaming and burnt off skin that had accompanied his real last memory of him.

Stephen gave a nod in return, before his astral form came to reluctantly resume its place in his body, sprawled brokenly in the massive armchair by the fire. Peter expected the cloak to go back to him, but the crotchety relic made no move to unwrap themselves from around the teen. Peter watched the clock on the wall, feeling his eyelids grow heavy beside the lulling, smoky heat of the fireplace. He watched the seconds tick by, watching the longer hand hit the number twelve and then keep going like nothing had changed

“Merry Christmas”, Stephen whispered a few seconds after midnight, even though his back was to the wall where the clock was. It felt like his words weren’t meant for Peter, even though the teen was the only other person in the room. But Peter understood. They were just two ghosts lost in the memories of the man they had both loved in their own way. They still loved him. The sorcerer’s eyes were hazy as he gazed into the fire, as if he had been talking to someone there, someone who lived where Peter could only see flickering flames, warm and bright and comforting. Peter knew what it felt like, to see him everywhere, to feel him in everyday little things, to feel his presence in warm gusts of wind, and the bitter scent of black coffee, and twinkling stars high above that brought some form of peace for a few seconds before the inevitable panic attack.

It was Christmas, and Peter wasn’t ready to spend it without Tony. 

In those surreal moments just after midnight, he could almost be okay if he was allowed to just sit for a while longer, contorted in a centuries old chair with a centuries old cloak draped over him. He was lost in a feverish, dream-like state with memories of the greatest man to ever live, content to forget reality for as long as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> It would be really mean if I pulled a ‘The Sixth Sense’ on you and told you that Peter actually did run out into traffic, and everything that came after in the story was him being in a coma before he died (or visiting Strange as a ghost), wouldn’t it? Strange may or may not be a ghost as well, or he’s just living out the rest of his days in his astral form, but either way he’d be easing Peter’s transition to the spirit world. But I’ll leave that up to reader interpretation whether they’re alive or not.


End file.
